


Flowers of the Dead

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Arya is Artemis, Come and see, Creepy!Littlefinger, F/M, Hades/Persephone based, Slightly violent, Underworld, but super romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: "You do not think about the consequences. Few gods ever do.”Sansa cannot help herself. She touches her lips to the center of his palm. “And mortals do?”Jon nods, solemn. “We have to live with our decisions,” he tells her. “You get to outlive them.”Hades/Persephone AU. Sort of.





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely based on Greek mythology. More like Greek mythology inspired. Sansa is a goddess, and Jon is the mortal she loves. 
> 
> Think of this as a Hades origin story.

They whisper about her.

They are afraid of her.

Shrouded in ice, buried under rubble and dirt and bones, bringer of death, a cold visage the like of which no one has seen.

Sansa watches, and hears what they say. It feeds her, their fear.

But still.

It was not always this way.

 

She was born in a meadow, the first daughter of the God of the Wind and the Goddess of Spring. Her father was there. Sansa’s first memory (for the memories of gods are long and clear) is of her father’s face, smiling down on her after her birth.

“We should call her Sansa,” her mother, Catelyn, says. “For the flowers I made on our wedding.”

A sweet name, for a sweet child.

Most of the gods were unhappily married. The king of them all, Robert, and his wife Cersei were legendary even among the mortals for their marital strife. Sansa’s own mother and father were apart more often than not, but they were happier than most. Her father’s nature, as wind’s tended to be, was restless, and he often blew in and out of their lives at irregular intervals, bringing back strange objects and fruits from far-flung lands for Sansa and her siblings to play with or try. They would sit with their father under his favorite tree, a white and red tree so strange that the mortals used it as a shrine to Sansa’s father, and listen, rapt, as Ned Stark regaled his children with tales of the vast ocean that was their uncle Brandon’s domain, or the strange gods that lurked beyond their borders.

Sansa remembers those sunlit days, fingers sticky with the figs she and Robb climbed to get, sugar on her tongue, leaning on her father’s shoulder. In her memory, those days were never ending, and perfect and slow, as though she was seeing them through a thick layer of honey. Sometimes, she and Arya would even get along, and play tricks on the mortals who tried to spy on them.

And then, after her father’s longest absence in Sansa’s fourteenth year, he brought home a boy.

 

  
The boy was a mortal.

“What are you called?” Robb asked him (in Sansa’s memory, later, she would admit Robb did not ask. Robb was a godling, and he demanded).

The boy did not answer. He was curled in a ball at the base of her father’s tree, shivering in the moonlight. His eyes were shut, and he rocked back and forth.

Robb prodded him with his sandal. “Why is he moving like that?” Robb asked, looking down at the mortal. “Can he not control himself?”

It is, strangely, Arya, the wildest of them all, that comes to the mortal’s rescue. “I think he’s cold,” she says, and strips off the wolf cloak from her own shoulders. Sansa’s protest dies on her lips as her little sister kneels before the mortal boy.

“Here,” Arya says, slowly.

Unspeaking, the boy takes the cloak, and says something, very quietly.

“I don’t think he speaks our tongue,” Arya says, nearly gentle (Sansa has never, nor will she ever, see Arya this way again).

Arya points to herself, and tells the mortal, “Ar-ya. I am Arya.”

To Sansa’s surprise, the boy buries his face in Arya’s cloak.

He is crying.

 

“He is the son of a mortal man,” her father tells them all, rubbing his fingers on his tree. “Rhaegar Targaryen. A traitor, who wished to strike the gods down, and have a world ruled by men.”

“Why have you brought the boy here, then?” Sansa’s mother asks, tight lipped. The boy is in her temple, now. Sleeping off his tears, Sansa assumes.

“The traitor will not harm us if we hold his son,” Ned tells his wife and children. “We must keep him here, until this mortal surrenders to the judgement of the gods. He will live in the temple and keep it for you, Catelyn.” Sansa’s mother grudgingly admits that the temple has needed upkeep in the past few years.

And so Sansa’s family takes on a mortal servant.

It is not the end of Sansa’s sunlit days, nor the end of her dream-like childhood, but there is a cloud on the horizon, and the wind is pulling it their way.

 

The mortal’s name is Jon Snow, a strange Valyrian name that Sansa has not heard before. At first, he is terrified of them all, especially Sansa’s father and Robb. The only one he allows to approach is Arya. This makes little sense to Sansa. Usually, mortals are more scared of Arya than her, but this Jon Snow takes food from her wild sister’s hands alone, learns the Westerosi tongue of the gods from Arya’s mouth, not from Sansa, or Robb, or even sweet-faced Bran.

Sansa feels hurt, but then resolves not to. All the mortal boys like her best. What did it matter if Arya got this one?

But she watches him still.

He first speaks with her on the Summer Solstice, when Sansa notices that he has stooped over to touch a blue flower growing through the cracks in her mother’s temple. They are the only flowers her mother allows to grow within the walls. The rest, her worshippers pull down.

“That’s a sansa flower,” she tells him. “My mother made it for my father on their wedding.”

The mortal’s face, which had been soft and open, shutters.

“We don’t call them that,” he says, his voice rough from disuse, his accent soft. It is a fascinating clash. “We call them winter roses.”

And then he turns away from her, effectively shutting down their conversation, and leaving Sansa hurt (in her childish mind, it had bothered her that not everyone knew the flower for her, that there were other names for her flower).

 

  
“Don’t tell your mother,” Jon pleads with Sansa. She is so angry she can feel it down to the tip of her toes. The stench of blood is in her nose. Mortal blood, and she wants more of it shed.

“They desecrated my mother’s temple,” she hisses at him. “They have spat on my mother’s shrine, and they shall feel her wrath.”

The village boys cow in the corner like the filth they are. Sansa cannot tear her eyes away from them, and she can see the stain along the inseam of one boy’s pants. Good. They are scared of her. The knowledge sends a strange rush through her body.

“They are children,” Jon Snow argues. “Stupid children who did not know there would be a godling in the temple to see. They meant no disrespect.”

“No disrespect?” Sansa laughs, incredulous. She sees Jon flinch, and a soft pang of regret sounds within her chest. The dove, her mother’s sacred animal, lies dead at Sansa’s feet, crudely butchered. Its broken wings call to Sansa far more than the boys sobbing brokenly at her mercy.

Jon gets down on his knees before her. “They are children,” he repeats, his voice strong. “They will learn from this. Do not do something permanent that you will regret.”

Sansa blinks down at him, then at the boys. They are young, she realizes. It is so hard to tell, with mortals. The eldest of the two is twelve.

Softer, Jon Snow implores, “You do not know what mortal boys are like, Goddess.” It is Sansa’s turn to flinch. He has never invoked her status, and it does not sound like he wants to, either. “They will always test the limits of the gods. Show them mercy, and let this be a lesson for them to learn from, and to spread. Once they tell the others, no one will dare desecrate your mother’s temple so again.”

Sansa wavers, and Jon presses forward, so quiet that if not for her sharp ears, Sansa would not have heard. “Don’t be what they think you are,” he pleads. “Leave them be.”

 

He brings her flowers the next day, when her anger at him has abated. They are not her flowers, but the colorful orange and yellow of the field beyond the woods. There are blisters on his feet from walking so far (Sansa cannot remember noticing blisters before Jon; before Jon she did not notice how fragile men are) and there is blood on his fingertips from pulling out the thorns.

He lays them at her feet, as if dedicating an offering to her altar.

Sansa has no altars yet, but one day she will have more than any god alive. It is this offering, though, that she remembers forever.

Jon straightens, and over the past year, Sansa has had to look up into his eyes. They are dark, and give little away.

Stiffly, he bows, and says, “Thank you.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, he turns to go, striding away. But Sansa watches him, mouth open. After a long moment, she shakes her head, and then stoops to collect the flowers.

 

“The flowers you gave me,” she tells him, her heart twisting uncomfortably. “They are dead.”

Jon looks up at her from his work. He pulls a weed from the base of the temple. “That happens,” he says mildly. “Things die, when they age.”

Sansa bites her lip, and fidgets, twisting the fabric of her peplos. “But they were so pretty,” she mutters, and sighs. “Show me where you found them, so I may gather some for my garden,” she commands (but she remembers hearing the request in her voice).

Arya scoffs, and Sansa nearly jumps. She hadn’t heard her sister arrive. As usual, Arya is covered in dirt and there are broken sticks in her hair. With a start, Sansa realizes that there’s a large wolf stalking behind her sister.

“I wanted Jon to come hunt with me,” Arya says. “But I think I’ll visit mother instead, if you’re going to do something as stupid as flower picking.”

Jon does not look like he wants to go flower picking, and Sansa’s stomach squeezes. But he stands and turns to Sansa.

 

Sansa arranges her hair around the roots of her father’s tree, shining red strands against the white bark. Jon sits two feet away from her, and even without looking, she can feel his eyes on her.

“Tell me of your father,” she says, and she feels him squirm. But he tells her.

“He wants to be his own god,” Jon says simply. There is a pain in his voice. “He thinks—he thinks we are slaves to the whims of the gods. That our lives are not our own.”

Sansa does not think Jon includes her when he says “we” and she buries her discomfort.

“Do you think he’s right?” Sansa asks, afraid to hear the answer.

Jon is silent for so long that Sansa thinks he won’t tell her. But then she feels his fingers on her cheek, and slowly, she turns her head to meet his gaze.

“You would have killed those boys,” Jon whispers, the words soft, but somehow heavy in the air between them. “For nothing. For being disrespectful.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” Sansa protests, but her voice is breathy. She can feel the three tiny points of heat where he is touching her. Three fingers more than he has ever done.

He looks disappointed in her, though, and makes to move away. Before she can think, Sansa grabs his wrist, and then presses his hand against her face. His palm is cool.

“It was,” he insists, finally. She can feel his pulse through his wrist, fast and erratic, echoing the beat of her own. “You would have killed them for a jape. You hold more power than I could ever dream, Sansa. And you do not think about the consequences. Few gods ever do.”

Sansa cannot help herself. She touches her lips to the center of his palm. “And mortals do?”

Jon nods, solemn. “We have to live with our decisions,” he tells her. “You get to outlive them.”

He pulls away, hesitantly, but not before stroking her cheek once, twice, and then letting go. Sansa is delirious with his brief touch, but his words echo, later that night (and for years to come).

 _You do not think about the consequences_.

 

On her sixteenth name day, Sansa is taken to Olympus.

The food is delicious, and the wine flows freely. The Queen of the Gods smiles down on Sansa and calls her a “little dove”, remarking on her likeness to her mother. King Robert, Lord of the Skies, blesses her and gives her drink from the wellspring of luck, and Sansa is complimented by more gods than she can recall the names of, dances throughout the night.

There has never been a young goddess so celebrated for her beauty, they say.

But there is a thorn in the night, and by the end of it, Sansa is simply tired and wants to go to sleep and dream.

She is nearly in bed when she sees them, on her pillow.

A dahlia flower.

Irrationally, Sansa’s eyes fill with tears. For what, she does not know. Perhaps it is the knowledge that this beautiful flower, now cut, will not last very long. Perhaps it is the thought of Jon, unable to join them on Olympus. Perhaps it is the match she knows her father plans with the king, a match between her and Joffrey, the God of War.

She inhales, and the flower’s scent wafts up, sweet and earthy. Suddenly, Sansa is tired no longer.

She holds the flower reverently, and walks through the fields surrounding her family’s grounds to her mother’s temple.

Jon Snow’s room is small. Sansa has only been here once before, when she was still a child, before Jon had come to them. When she opens the door, she sees his eyes through the dark, open.

“Sansa,” he starts, but that is all she lets him say.

Their first kiss is a sweet thing, soft and unsure. Sansa holds the flower between them and Jon pulls her closer, one hand at her waist, the other behind her neck. When they are done, Jon leans his forehead on her bare shoulder, like a man seeking comfort, and Sansa holds her arms around him.

Their second kiss is even sweeter.

 

“Would you love me,” Sansa asks, head in Jon’s lap, feeling his fingers card through her hair lazily, “if I wasn’t a goddess?”

“Yes,” Jon says. The sun shines through the leaves, and make patterns through Sansa’s closed lids. She smiles, and rewards Jon with another grape. He chuckles, and the sound is warm, so warm that Sansa feels it heat her blood.

“Would you love me,” she thinks for a moment, and opens her mouth for a grape, which Jon places into her waiting teeth with care. She nips his fingers and continues. “Would you love me if I wasn’t beautiful?”

Again, he tells her, “Yes.” She feels a fingertip drag over her eyelids. “You’re beautiful inside, Sansa,” he tells her. She believes him.

 

  
The peace Sansa feels has never been greater. The love she feels has never been deeper, more consuming. Perhaps that is why it is taken from her.

Rhaegar Targaryen rides into her mother’s temple on the most beautiful day of the summer. His steed is black and winged, a pegasus captured from the East.

At first, Sansa does not understand. It is just her and Arya and Jon in the temple. Today is not one of her mother’s holy days, and the man brings no offering. But Jon drops an urn when he sees his father, and Sansa can see the resemblance.

“I am here for my son,” Rhaegar declares.

“Father,” Sansa hears Jon whisper. Then, louder, “Father!”

Jon’s father swings down off the pegasus, and holds his son close. Sansa can see tears in his eyes.

“We are leaving,” Rhaegar says, and suddenly, there are men behind him, men with swords. “Come, Jon.”

Sansa can see that Jon does not understand, yet. His father pulls him behind, and Jon digs in his heels. Her heart is in her throat.

Besides her, Arya is snarling at the mortal soldiers.

“Father,” Sansa hears Jon say, as he struggles, “Father, I cannot go.”

And then Jon is out of Sansa’s sight.

Alarmed, Sansa cries out. And then, chaos erupts.

Arya’s wolves attack the soldiers, and her way is blocked, but Sansa dashes through the fray and into the open air. Jon is yanking his arm away from his father, struggling against his captor, and Sansa feels a brief sense of elation. He doesn’t want to leave her, she thinks.

But then the wind picks up.

Rhaegar feels it too. He drops his son’s arm, and Jon staggers back. Sansa runs to him, and pulls him back, towards her father’s tree. Rhaegar hardly notices her. His eyes are glued to Sansa’s father.

Her father has summoned the winds. Sansa feels them tangling her hair, but she pays it no mind, clutches at Jon’s arms instead.

“Are you all right?” She has to shout to be heard.

Jon’s eyes haven’t left his father.

“Sansa,” he begs. “Let me go to him.”

“You cannot,” she tells him. “He’s going to take you from here!”

Jon tries to move around her, but Sansa is stronger than him. She keeps him in place. “He’s going to kill my father,” Jon cries.

But there is a strange thing happening.

A rope of gold is in Rhaegar’s hand, and with a sinking feeling, Sansa realizes what it is; a lasso, dripped in ichor. The blood of the gods. And in a flash, her father, the god of the wind, is choking around the rope, eyes wide. Under her hands, Jon has frozen.

“No,” he says. “FATHER, NO!”

But it is too late. Rhaegar has pulled out a dagger and plunged it into Ned Stark’s heart.

And so dies the god of the winds.

Sansa does not realize she has collapsed until Jon catches her. Her eyes are open, but the only thing she sees are the feet of the man who killed her father, walking towards her.

“Father,” she hears Jon beg. He has switched into the mortal language of Valyrian. Sansa recognizes some of the words from his first few months with them. “Please, stop. I’ll come with you. Stop.”

Jon’s father crouches over her, and she can see the blade that killed her father, dripping ichor.

“She’s a godling,” Rhaegar spits out blood, and it lands on Sansa’s fingers, red. “They’ve poisoned you, Jon, with their pretty faces and godly ways. But I’ve got you now, my son. We’re going home.”

“No,” Sansa moans, eyes on her father. “No no nooo.”

With a movement nearly too quick for Sansa to react, Rhaegar wraps the lasso about her hand. It is agony. Sansa finds that she cannot breathe, her hand burns. He is going to kill her.

It’s as if the spark of life has been driven back into Sansa, and she bucks up against him, and fights him with all her strength, diminished as it is with the rope tied around her wrist.

Behind him, she can see Arya run out of the temple, her wolves at her heels.

Three things happen at once, then. Three things that, with her memory, Sansa will never, ever forget.

Rhaegar strikes his dagger forward. The first of Arya’s wolves jumps atop his back. And Jon Snow (her precious, beautiful, mortal Jon Snow) throws his body on top of Sansa’s.

It is not her heart that the dagger finds, but the boy she loves, who she has given it to.

Later, after the wolves have ripped Rhaegar apart, and her mother and brothers have arrived (too late, too late; Sansa will never forget), Sansa holds her mortal love in her arms under the white tree that had been her father’s shrine. His blood stains the roots red, and he grows colder by the minute.

The mortals called it the heart tree, later. The goddess Sansa lost her heart there. But now, as she clutches at Jon Snow’s corpse, Sansa vows to steal it back.


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are gods. It is not in their nature to be kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! In my indecisiveness, I couldn't come up with a good way to end the chapter. Sorry to keep y'all waiting, but I hope you enjoy. I've also extended the story to three chapters, and I may even extend it even more.
> 
> As always, playing fast and loose with mythology. In this 'verse, the gods are fairly new, so it's still the beginning of their reign. As such, they haven't had any contact with the realm of the dead/underworld yet.
> 
> Littlefinger is a cunning cross between Athena/Ares as the god of war/trickster god  
> Gendry is the version of Hephaestus, god of the forge  
> And I'm pretty sure I'm deciding between Bran and Jaime as Hermes, the messenger of the gods.

“I want him back,” Sansa tells the trickster god. Under the cover of darkness, hidden by the hood of her heavy mourning cloak, Littlefinger must know who truly she is. But Sansa is not here to hide from him.

“Come into the light, my girl,” Littlefinger says, and Sansa’s hands clench her peplos under the cloak involuntarily. “So I may see your beauty better.”

Sansa bites back the snarling remark that she is not his girl. The only man her heart will ever belong to is dead.

Stiffly, Sansa takes one step, two steps, and pushes the hood of her cloak away. In the lamplight, she can see her uncle’s eyes twinkle, his tongue dart out to lick the corner of his lips.

“Ah,” he says theatrically, inclining his head to her in a show of respect. “You surpass your mother in beauty more every time I lay my poor eyes upon you. You do your uncle a great favor, coming to visit him after so long.”

Sansa leans forward, wraps her hands around the bars of his cage. “I need him back,” she repeats. Her voice is dry, and she has not eaten in days. Robb had held vigil for their father, but Jon had no one. She’d kept his vigil in place of a brother, all the while anger roiling in her stomach.

“Who?” Littlefinger asks, reclining back on the cushions of his prison. Even with walls and enchantments hemming him in, Petyr Baelish looks relaxed, unafraid of the goddess standing before him with death a shroud about her. “As you might see,” he continues, waving a hand, “I have not been out much. Who is it you need? And why is it you think I can help you, sweet girl?”

“Do not insult me by playing at ignorance, Littlefinger,” Sansa says. “I want Jon Snow back.”

Beneath his eyes, always so carefully friendly, Sansa can see a flare of anger. “A wise man once told me that ignorance is bliss,” Littlefinger muses.

“Do you believe that?” Sansa asks, knowing he doesn’t. Information is the trickster god’s weapon, and he would not willingly part with it.

“You ask for Jon Snow,” Littlefinger laughs, a sound that grates on Sansa’s nerves. “Not your father?”

Sansa presses her lips together. “Can I get them both?”

Littlefinger regards her through the bars. “Probably not,” he says. “You probably can’t get either of them back.”

Sansa flexes her fingers around the bars. “And what,” she whispers, her voice as soft as the wind. “What if there is a realm of the dead? What if I can find it?”

At that, Littlefinger grins. In a flash, he is standing before her, and has wrapped his hands around hers on the bars. “You would be shunned,” he says, gleefully.

Sansa continues, staring unflinchingly into the pits of green fire that are her uncle’s eyes. “Above, there is the realm of the gods,” she says carefully. “On land, there is the realm of man. Below…” she trails off.

“The realm of the dead,” Littlefinger whispers. His smile is that of a shark’s.

“And if I can travel the land of the living and the land of the gods,” Sansa finishes, her voice soft as a petal, “who can tell me not to travel the land of the dead as well?”

 

  
“You’re doing something,” Arya says accusingly. There is a silver circlet on her brow, and at her side is Gendry, the god of the forge. A big, hulking thing, he’d scared Sansa at first, with his soot-stained hands and his perpetual scowl. Sansa isn’t scared of him now. She’s seen true evil when it murdered her father and Jon Snow. A scary looking boy doesn’t quite strike the fear into her heart that it once might have.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Arya demands. One of her sister’s wolves whines, feeling their mistress’s agitation.

They stand in her mother’s temple, the first time Sansa has come back since that night. Dimly, Sansa can hear the prayers of her mother’s followers.

“I am bringing an offering to our mother,” Sansa says, and lowers the dove in her hands down to the altar she stands before. This altar is hidden from the mortal worshippers, built so that Catelyn’s children could communicate with their mother if she was not in the temple.

“She won’t answer,” Arya says, snarling. “She hasn’t come down from Olympus since Father died. Where have you been, Sansa? You disappeared for a week. I looked for you after the vigil you kept.”

“I needed to be alone,” Sansa murmurs, unable to look at Arya’s face.

“You’re lying,” Arya says, and Gendry puts a hand on her shoulder. Arya shakes it off, but lowers her voice. “Tell me, Sansa. What are you doing?”

Sansa shakes her head. There are, unexpectedly, tears clogging her throat.

“I can help,” Arya tries, but Sansa turns away from her.

“You can’t,” Sansa tells her sister, voice cold, smothering her tears. “Go away, Arya. I didn’t come here for you to bother me.”

 

  
She returns to Littlefinger that night.

“Have you given thought to our deal?” He asks, leaning against the bars.

“Tell me how, first.”

Littlefinger laughs at her. Sansa feels her anger grow.

“That is not how this works, goddess. Free me, and I will help you. Don’t, and you shall never know how to find your love.”

As she reaches for the bars, Sansa wavers. What if he cannot bring her what she wants? Littlefinger is not known as the trickster god for nothing.

But then she thinks of Jon, his smile in the sunlit days under her father’s tree, the crinkle of his eyes when he laughed. The touch of his lips on hers.

The feel of his blood under her hands.

She wants him back more than anything. And so she reaches over and places a seed from her mother’s garden into the lock of the cage.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” Sansa tells him. “Don’t touch the seedling.”

There are flowers under the tree when she gets there. Sansa did not put them there. They are freshly cut, and carry the smell of mortals. Unexpectedly, Sansa is touched. At a safe distance away from her, a boy waits for her.

Sansa falls to her knees in front of the tree, bends to pick up the flowers. Tulips, peonies, and a dandelion. Poor man’s flowers, all picked from the field around them, arranged in a ring, woven crudely together.

It’s the most beautiful bouquet Sansa has ever seen.

“I am sorry, goddess,” a boy’s voice whispers, breaking through her thoughts. Sansa can feel her face grow cold, but turns her head slowly to look at the child.

“Who are you?” she demands, voice hard. It is almost as if she wants him to provoke her. The boy flinches back.

“Satin, goddess. I—” he looks down at his feet, bare in the grass. “Jon Snow interceded once, on my behalf. We…my family and I, and the whole village…we’re praying for him.”

She recognizes him. He’s the boy who left the broken bird on her mother’s temple floor.

Don’t be what they think you are, Sansa hears, and a sudden, crippling pain explodes in her chest. Will there ever be a day when Jon’s memory is no longer painful?

Yes, she thinks. It will no longer be painful when he is with her again.

“Thank you,” Sansa tells Satin, turning her head away from him. She looks back at the flowers in her hands, and in her mind’s eye, she can see Jon dying in her arms, in this very spot.

 

  
The vines have grown out of the lock by the time Sansa returns, and wrap around the keyhole.

“When my mother is angry with her mortals,” Sansa says, touching the vine, “she sends this weed to crumble their villages. It grows between the walls of their homes and temples and brings them falling down.” With a touch, the plant begins to shudder and squeeze. Sansa can hear the metal of the cage screeching.

“For all that your mother is the goddess of spring,” Littlefinger muses, watching her, “she can be quite bloodthirsty.”

Sansa says nothing. They are all bloodthirsty. They are gods. It is not in their nature to be kind.

Don’t be what they think you are.

Well, Sansa wagers that no one would dare to think she would break the law of King Robert and help a traitorous god escape. No one would think her brave enough to bend the fabric of existence to get Jon Snow, a mortal back from the underworld.

She is not what they think she is. She doesn’t think she will ever be that girl again.

The lock breaks, and the door is open.

 

  
With his first step outside his cage, Littlefinger glows with power.

Sansa can feel it drawing to him, feel it like the heat leeching out of the air and cold creeping in. His steps are light, so light she can hardly hear them. Warily, Sansa watches him. She has never seen him outside his cage, and she can see, now, why King Robert would be afraid of him.

It is not until she feels her throat tightening that Sansa begins to panic. Her hand flies to her neck, and she tries to breathe in, gagging. Littlefinger is not even looking at her, but studying his cage from the outside.

“It’s smaller than it seems from the inside,” he muses. “Couldn’t Robert have given me a more spacious prison? Not that I’m complaining, my dear. No, it’s just not quite…polite, to leave your guests this way, is it?” Littlefinger laughs, a sound filled with power, lazy and sure. “But then again,” he continues, as Sansa claws at her throat and falls to her knees, “Robert was never polished, not like your mother and I had to be. Being King of the Gods, well—you certainly don’t have to be…accommodating.” Her vision is going hazy and red around the edges. Littlefinger steps in a circle, spreading his arms around. “Look at all this. Freedom is sweet, little Sansa. Never let them get you in a cage.”

“We—we h-had a—” Sansa gasps out, but not before the air is cut off again.

“Deal, yes.” Littlefinger regards her, on her knees before him. He smiles slowly, and Sansa can see the points of his teeth. “I keep my deals, sweet girl. But this one…” he trails off and strokes Sansa’s throat, where she can feel her airway blocked.

“You could sweeten the pot a bit more,” he suggests, his eyes tracing over the column of her neck. “Wouldn’t you say?”

She would say no, if she could speak.

With a lurch, Sansa vaults to her feet, away from him. Black spots have started creeping into her eyes, and she knows her time is running out. She makes it to the chair she’d draped her cloak over.

“I’m not asking for much,” Littlefinger says behind her, as if this were a normal conversation. “I shall help you reach the realm of the dead, of course. And we may save your poor mortal boy. But you will marry me afterwards.”

Sansa is barely paying attention. Her hands are shaking, and she reaches for her cloak, dragging it down to the ground.

Littlefinger sees the knife, and comes over. Sansa swipes at him with it weakly, but he steps on her hand, making her cry out in silent pain.

He leans in close. “No need for that,” he says, twisting his foot on her hand. Sansa can dimly hear a bone break. Touching her face, Littlefinger murmurs, almost absently, “You’re so much more beautiful than your mother.”

And then Sansa is gasping, coughing, air rushing through her lungs. Her uncle is flat on his back, and writhing in pain. Wrapped around his wrist is the lasso Rhaegar used to weaken her and kill her father, dripped in ichor.

“Never,” Sansa hears herself repeating, over and over. “Never, never, never, never.” She can feel her throat burning, her lungs filling not only with air, but with pain after each unsteady breath.

She wants nothing more than to lay there, regain her breath, and then kill Littlefinger, wrap the lasso around his throat and see how he likes being brought to the brink of death.

But she needs him.

Standing slowly, Sansa straightens her back. “I will never marry you,” she gasps, reaching for the chair to steady herself. “Or let you touch me, ever.” Littlefinger looks at her through hooded eyes, his face unreadable. The rope in Sansa’s hands is burning her skin, but he is trapped by it.

“This could have been easy,” Sansa tells him. “An exchange. I free you, you give me the information I need. What did you gain from this?”

“Nothing, it seems,” Littlefinger says, and yes, she can see it now, the indignant anger behind his dead eyes.

“Tell me,” she says, and nudges him with a sandaled foot. “What do I need to do to get into the realm of the dead?”

 

  
In her mother’s temple, Sansa studies herself in the cool, round silver plate. In her reflection, she looks half-dead, with deep bruises around her neck, and her right hand still bloody and broken. This is the last time she will see herself this way.

“Who did that to you?” Arya asks, hushed. Her sister is alone, and has a bow hung across her shoulders. Through the columns, a beam of moonlight rests on Arya’s shoulders, and illuminates her from behind. The silver circlet above her brow catches the light, and Sansa memorizes her sister’s face this way.

She has a feeling that the next time they see each other, everything will be different.

“Petyr Baelish,” Sansa says, and closes her eyes.

“You let him out,” Arya states, voice flat.

Swallowing, Sansa nods.

“Why?” Arya demands.

“I had to,” Sansa says, and looks at Arya.

Arya studies the bruises around Sansa’s neck. “Let’s go, then. We have to leave. Once King Robert finds out that you’re the one who let him go, he’ll come for you. I’ll get Bran and Rickon.”

Unexpectedly, Sansa feels her heart swell. “Arya—”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Arya interrupts, pleading. “Sansa, I don’t know what it is you’re planning, but I know that look. Father used to get it when he left. Don’t leave us.”

“Even if I could save him?” Sansa whispers. “I could save him, Arya.”

“Who?” Arya asks harshly. “Father? Or Jon?”

Sansa flinches, and that is all the answer Arya needs.

Her sister comes close, takes Sansa’s hand. “We’ve lost so much, Sansa. I know that. Jon was like a brother to me too. But we’ve lost him.” Arya’s eyes glitter with tears in the moonlight. “Don’t add to that. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Sansa touches Arya’s face and nods.

“Go get the boys, then. I’ll wait here.”

Arya sniffs, and wipes at her eyes. “They’re with our uncle Benjen,” she says. “I won’t be too long. Stay hidden.”

“I will,” Sansa promises.

The moment her sister has left, Sansa stands. She will not have much time.

The heart tree is cold and pale in the moonlight, reaching skyward like a frozen hand. When Sansa closes her eyes, she can still see the very spot where Jon Snow died in her arms.

She kneels in front of the tree, and places her hands on the dirt. She swears she can still feel his blood in the ground. She digs her fingers in, ignoring the pain in her broken hand.

She digs, and she can feel the dirt under her nails, wet and grainy. She digs, and she can almost feel her father’s hands guiding hers.

She digs like a woman possessed, and only when she reaches the first root of her father’s tree does she stop. Taking a knife from her cloak, Sansa saws at it until she breaks through, and then from her pocket she pulls out the poison.

She doesn’t hesitate. She’s had all night to think this through, and killing this tree, while it hurts her deeply, is the only way she knows how to travel into the realm of the dead.

The tree doesn’t die easily. It is older than her, older than the gods themselves. The power stored within fights its death, but no living thing can resist death forever.

The white branches turn black before Sansa’s eyes, and with an awful cracking noise, the tree seems to shatter outwards, each branch and limb twisting and tearing until Sansa can see what it is doing; exposing the center to her. She is crying, sobbing harder than she’s ever done before, sucking breaths that somehow, are more difficult to take with each moment that she kills her father’s legacy. Without his tree, the mortals will forget their proud god of the winds.

Only death can pay for life.

A dark smoke comes off the tree, and only when it clears can Sansa see it: the pit at the base, where the center of the tree once stood. Securing her knife to a knot of fabric she’s tied round her waist, Sansa hesitates, only for a moment. She has no assurances that this hole into the realm of the dead will be open when she wishes to leave. She could be trapping herself.

 _Is he worth it_? a small voice within her asks. She hates herself almost immediately, but the voice persists. _Is a mortal even worth this trouble_?

Instead of answering, Sansa wipes at her eyes. “Would you love me,” she whispers into the empty night, “if I wasn’t a goddess?”

The wind does not answer. The grass does not answer. Her mother, absent from her side, cannot answer her either. There is only one thing in this world that loves Sansa enough that the answer would be yes. And there is only one way to get him.

Steadying herself, Sansa closes her eyes, then reconsiders. She does not want to ever close her eyes to the world again, the world she once thought beautiful that is, in truth, a hard, cold place without someone to love her. She will keep her eyes wide, no matter what comes.

And so she jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please leave feedback and reviews/comments below! How is everyone liking Goddess!Sansa?


	3. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get to the souls of the dead, there are tests you must pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What kind of Greek Mythology AU would this be without some good ol' trials? Sansa's experience in the Underworld begins here!
> 
> Featuring cameos by GOT characters. See if you can find them all!

When Sansa awakens, it is to a gentle lapping at her feet. When her eyes open, there is darkness around her, a darkness so profound that even though she cannot see, her eyes search and search for something to latch on to. She can feet water through the toes of her sandals, but it seems insubstantial, almost. When she touches her fingers to it, no wetness comes off on them.

Suddenly, Sansa’s vision sharpens. There is not yet anything to see but a pinprick of light, off in the distance. As she watches, it grows larger and larger, until finally she can see the source: a lone figure in a dark hood, rowing steadily towards her.

“Will you take me across?” Sansa asks, when he is within shouting range. He makes no answer, and Sansa realizes that under his cloak, he has no expression.

Finally, the boat has reached her. Sansa thinks, for a moment, that he will continue on, taking the light with him. She will be trapped here forever, stuck in this darkness. But in front of her, the boatman stills. The water does not push him forward, and he drops no anchor. And yet…

“You are not dead,” the voice comes from beneath the hood. “I cannot take you across.”

Sansa searches her satchel blindly, perhaps for a knife to threaten him with, perhaps for a bargaining chip, _something_. But he is too far, out of reach, and Sansa will not wade into this unnatural water.

“There must be some way,” she says. “Has there ever been someone living in this realm? How do you know you cannot take me across?”

The grim man sounds confused, “You wish to enter the realm of the dead? Why, when you live still?”

Sansa debates lying to him. Lies have, after all, been coming faster to her now. “I have lost something I love,” she says instead. “I would have it back.”

Slowly, the man pushes the hood off his head. His eyes are completely black, and his face is scarred, as though nails have raked their way down it. He tilts his head, considering.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you have payment?”

“Payment?” Sansa echoes.

The man nods, but does not speak again. Sansa rummages through her satchel, wary. Gods have no use for coins, no use for gold unless they are wearing it. Sansa did not bring her finery with her. She has prepared for a battle, not a barter.

Miraculously, there it is; at the bottom of the bag. Glinting in the light of the lamp, a coin stares up at her.

Wordlessly, the boatman takes the coin to inspect it.

“We all have one such coin,” he says finally. “We are born with it and carry it all our days. It is a piece of your soul, little sister,” he explains, addressing her in the formal, archaic tongue of the First Men. “I will accept this as payment. Do you give it freely?”

A piece of her _soul_? Suddenly, Sansa wants to snatch the coin back, to offer him…

To offer him what? She has no other coin to trade, and no way to leave this place.

“What will you do with it?” She asks.

The boatman tosses the coin in the air. It arcs above his head, and Sansa is stricken with the fear that it will fall into this not-water that pulls at her toes. But he catches it, and says nothing.

“I give it freely,” Sansa whispers.

The moment she says the words, she in sitting across from him, and he is paddling them down the river.

  

 

“There are levels,” he explains, rowing soundlessly. Sansa had almost given up on conversation, and her head snaps to regard him.

“To this realm?” she asks, waiting for his clarification.

“Aye,” he affirms. “If you want to get to the souls of the dead, there are tests you must pass. Tests that give the measure of your worth. This was the first. You had to give up a piece of yourself to come down here.”

 _I_ _already_ _have_ , Sansa wants to scream. She thinks of her family, of the tree she has ruthlessly poisoned. That tree was older than her father, and his altar besides.

“You have to show that you are willing to give up anything for passage,” he continues, ignoring the anger on Sansa’s face. “Listen closely, little sister. I will be the last person to instruct you here.”

Sansa swallows her retort, and listens.

“I cannot tell you what those tests will be, nor how long they will take to pass. If you do not pass, expect to find yourself back on my shores, as a dead woman. And now you have no coin to barter, so you will be stuck in darkness for all eternity. You will have no help, and you will have no allies as you go deeper.”

“If I pass these tests,” Sansa asks him, “will I find what I’ve been looking for?”

“You may find many things,” the man says, and when he turns to her, Sansa stifles a shriek. He has become faceless, as he rowed, and only his nose and mouth remain. “They may be what you seek, and they may not be. Even little godlings cannot predict what happens here in the Underworld, little sister.”

“Who are you?” Sansa whispers, her voice dry. He is no mortal, and yet…he is no god she knows the name of.

“No One,” he replies, “I have many faces, and many names. Today I am the boatman, to deliver you onto the shores of the Underworld.”

With that, the boat bumps against something. Land. Sansa stands and looks him over. “Will I get my coin back when I leave?” she asks, climbing out.

Without his eyes, it is difficult to tell, but Sansa swears there is a disbelieving expression upon his face. “Perhaps,” he says. “Death will come for you, little sister,” he says. “Death is older than life. Death is older than the gods themselves, older than that tree you killed, and so too is this Underworld.” He leans close, and pushes away from the shore with a paddle. “There are monsters down here that have lived longer than you can fathom.” His unreadable face slips back under his hood. “Bear that in mind before you fight for your mortal boy. Will this fight be worth the sacrifice?”

“Yes,” Sansa says, but she can feel uncertainty nibbling at the corners of her being. It has to be worth it.

The light of his lamp pulls away and in the darkness she hears his parting words: “I suggest you start walking, then.”

 

 

She walks until her feet are sore, and then walks some more. The darkness has given way to a gray light, so faint that Sansa’s eyes strain to see anything. But in the distance, there is something…she can almost see it…

It is a cave. Large and gaping, Sansa can see the blue light beyond, a cold, uninviting light. But that is not what worries her.

The growling does.

It is low, and she cannot see its source, but she can hear it grow as she approaches the cave. A monster, just as the boatman warned. Although Sansa cannot see it, she can just imagine what it looks like, and image after vile image fills her head, each worse than the last. She grips at her knife, only to find that her hand is no longer broken.

She stares at her fingers in wonder, and that is when it happens.

A gust of hot breath washes over Sansa, the warmest thing she’s felt since arriving below. When she looks up, the face of a gigantic, snarling wolf greets her eyes.

It lunges, and Sansa topples backwards in alarm, but it is for naught; the wolf is chained to the cave.

She has never _seen_ anything of its kind. The beast is large, almost as tall as the cave’s ceiling. It has _three_ heads, each a different color. The one in the center has red fur, the one on the side black and the one snarling soundlessly at her is white as snow.

Shaking, Sansa rises, brushing the dirt from her peplos. Its eyes, all six of them, follow her movement.

There is no way past the beast. It may be chained, but there is enough space for it to move around the cave, guarding against Sansa’s entrance. She clutches at her knife, and finds her voice.

“Will you let me pass, creature?” She does not expect an answer, but the wolves stop growling. They stare at her, unmoving and unnaturally still. She has a flash of memory, Arya surrounded by her own wolves, laughing and scratching behind their ears. Her mother had been terrified of the things, believing that Arya would be eaten, but her father had laughed it off. All signs pointed to Arya becoming the goddess of beasts, big and small, but wolves had been her favorite companions. Sansa had hesitantly touched one, once, on a summer day when she’d been wrapped in Jon’s arms, the taste of his lips still on hers. The wolf, a pup, had bounded up to her happily and settled in her lap, only to fall asleep. Perhaps because it was asleep, Sansa had worked up her nerve, touched its soft fur gingerly, aware of Jon’s laughing eyes on hers until he suddenly wasn’t laughing, and his eyes burned into her. She’d pretended to be unaware of his stare, but her face had tingled for hours and hours after.

It is the weight of his stare that snaps her into this moment. A sadness has permeated the air around her, and Sansa notices that the beast—the wolf—has not lunged at her again. It is shaking in anticipation of something, and Sansa is shaking as well, but she steps forward.

When she is within range, she holds her hand out the way she has seen Arya do so many times before.

“Here girl,” she says, unsure if it is a girl. “Come, take a sniff. I won’t hurt you.”

The red wolf head approaches first, so quickly that Sansa does not have time to stumble back to safety.

She stays still, paralyzed with fear, when the wolf sniffs her hand. The force of it’s breathing nearly jerks her hand closer to it, but she does. Not. Move.

The wolf opens its mouth, and _licks_ her hand.

Sansa could nearly crumple in relief, but forces herself to pet the wolf on its snout. The other heads come close, and sniff her as well, and Sansa observes that where the chains bind their necks the skin is raw, the fur matted with blood.

“No wonder you were so angry,” Sansa coos at them, scratching the white one behind the ears, as she’s seen Arya do. “You must be hurt.”

The black one licks at her face, and unexpectedly, Sansa begins to laugh. It is a weak, hysterical noise that builds until she is crying, gasping for breath as she laughs and laughs.

 

 

  
The wolves are whining when Sansa crosses the cave, but make no move to stop her. She is both glad for it and sad. She wishes she could free them from their bondage, but her small knife made no dents in the chain, and she could not find a keyhole with which to pick the lock. She yearns for the seedling that she’d wasted on Littlefinger’s cell.

There is nothing she can do for them, though. So Sansa walks.

The light here is blue, and brighter than before. Beyond the cave mouth where the wolf lay in wait, the cavern extends and opens; it is unnaturally wide, like a new world unfurling before her. Cones of blue fire line the walls of the cave, and they get further and further apart as the cave gets wider and wider. There looks to be no end in sight, and Sansa can feel blood welling up where the rocks beneath her feet cut through her sandals. This is a dark, barren land. Thinking of Jon being trapped here, of all the souls that are trapped here, Sansa’s heart sinks. Where are the flowers? She wonders. Where is the sun? Does it never touch this cursed… Underworld, as the boatman called it? On Olympus, the sun had touched all, and warm light stretched for miles and miles.

Once, Sansa makes the mistake of looking up. She looks down just as quickly. Above her are gaping faces, staring down at her. There is a blue quality to the souls that stare, floating above her, and they swirl above, insubstantial.

At her acknowledgement of their presence, the souls descend. They are upon Sansa in a moment, and their hands grab at the fabric of her peplos and cloak. They are weak, and their hands cannot do anything but slightly rustle her clothes, but Sansa can hear their voices as though she is hearing them from under water. A word or two can be clearly heard, like "unnatural” and “help” and “death”, but the rest seem too far, too garbled to be heard.

Then, in the mortal tongue of High Valyrian, Sansa hears, “Goddess!”

The souls scatter, and form a circle about Sansa. Slowly, she turns.

It is Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon’s father.

The man who murdered her father.

In death, he is tall, taller than she remembers, when she had been on the ground writhing in pain. His face is haunting and beautiful, like a statue, and cold like a stone.

“Where are we?” Sansa demands, anger coloring her voice. The souls about her give Rhaegar a wide berth as he moves, floating towards her.

“This is where we wait,” he replies, still in Valyrian. Sansa remembers Jon’s mouth forming words, teaching her his tongue, kissing her mouth as they tried to copy the sounds.

“For what?”

“Judgement,” a crone besides her whispers, “judgement to pass.”

“Into what?” Sansa asks. She regards the strangers about her. She cannot look at the man who destroyed her life, not for much longer.

“We do not know,” Rhaegar says. “Why have you come, goddess?”

She does not answer him. “How do you pass?” The old woman approaches her.

“I can help you,” she insists. She must have been a priestess, for a ruby glimmers at her throat, the mark of Stannis, god of fire.

Something in her eyes, though. Sansa wants nothing to do with this greedy-eyed woman.

“Leave her,” Rhaegar commands, using the same air of authority he’d had in life, the sort of authority that had convinced the mortals to follow him in his ill-fated uprising against the gods. The woman shoots him a poisonous look and slinks off.

Sansa stares at him. “What do you want?” she demands, unkindly.

He is full of a melancholy sort of regret when he says, “I wanted my son back. When I was alive. I searched for years, even though I thought he was dead. I wanted him to know I hadn’t abandoned him.”

“You killed my father,” she hisses.

“Yes,” he says. “I did. I am not sorry for that, although I regret the pain caused to your family.”

“You killed my father,” she repeats, her voice rising.

“He stole my son,” Rhaegar retorts.

Sansa snarls, a sound completely alien to her. “I wish I’d have stayed awake long enough to watch Arya’s wolves pull you apart,” she says.

“I understand,” he says, calm. She cannot understand his calm. “I love my son,” he tells her sadly. “I did not mean for all this. If I’d have known he would be the price, I would never have risen against the gods.”

An angry tear falls from Sansa’s eye, and suddenly, the souls have crowded around her again, pushing and shoving one another, fighting to grab it from her face. Startled, Sansa falls back, and feels the rocks tear into her hands.

Just as quickly, they scurry away.

“You are alive,” the priestess explains, her dark eyes glinting red, and it is the hottest color Sansa has seen since descending into the Underworld. She balances the tear on her finger, and licks it. For a moment, she seems almost substantial, and then she closes her eyes in satisfaction. “I can almost taste it,” she says wistfully. Before Sansa’s eyes, the woman transforms, and she is young. The moment passes, and an old woman stands before her again.

A hand helps Sansa off the ground. It is only when she is standing that she sees it was Rhaegar.

“Jon has already been judged,” he tells her. “He is through the gates. You will not find him here.”

“How will I find him?” Sansa asks, her anger cooling. She must keep a cool head.

Rhaegar’s dark eyes regard her. They are purple, almost, and nothing like Jon’s.

“You must pass a judgement,” he says.

  
_On whom_? Sansa wants to ask, but she already knows. He is here, after all. She wants to damn him to the deepest pits of the Underworld, but judgement must be just, after all. Does Rhaegar deserve the punishment she wants to bestow upon him? Is punishment judgement?

No. She must divorce herself of feeling if she wants to be just. She must regard him as though he has not wronged her personally. She must judge him based on his life, not the action that has ruined hers.

“Tell me, then,” she entreats him, the words bitter in her mouth. “Tell me what you have done well in your life to deserve a good fate. Tell me what ills and evils you have done. I shall judge whether you deserve to move from this hall.”

He sits before her, and Sansa can see, for the first time, Jon’s face in his.

“I have strayed,” he confesses, his voice hard, as if daring her to judge. “From my wife. I had two children with her, and loved her well. But a maiden caught my eye, and in a fit of madness I lusted after her. I lay with her, and so my son Jon came to be, to my shame. But I loved him more for it, and it was that love that your father saw when he took him from me.”

Sansa swallows the lump in her throat.

“He was just a child,” Rhaegar continues. “I begged the gods to kill me instead, but leave him with our people, please. When they did not, my wife begged me to forget him. My son tried to replace Jon in my heart. But it did not work, and I searched for him instead. I thought the gods made a slave of him. I thought he was being worked to the bone.”

“My father accepted him as one of our own,” Sansa tells him. Rhaegar’s face softens at that.

“I know that now. And I am grateful for that. But a child should never be separated from his parents in such a manner. And I have killed and deceived to get back to him. It was worth it, all of it. To see his face once more.”

Sansa feels sick. She wants to run away from Rhaegar, to scream at him that all his efforts resulted not in reunion, but in death. But she stays silent.

“I have fought for my people,” Rhaegar tells her. “I believe men should have self-determination, not follow gods who are only concerned with fucking and fighting their battles, often at the cost of our lives. I have loved women, I have killed men, and a god. But I have raised the poor, I have rebuilt the homes I destroy, and I have protected my home.” He takes a breath. “What is your judgement, goddess?”

Sansa’s heart is stone. She cannot think of him as a man who killed her father and love. She must think of him impassively.

“You are neither good nor evil,” she says finally, hating every word. “You are man.”

He stares at her. “What is your judgement?” He repeats.

Sansa thinks hard. And it comes to her. “You can pass,” she tells him, “but you cannot stay on the other side. You must be the guide for lost souls, and take them beyond. But you must always return here, and guide the next. You will be a traveler. You will never belong anywhere.”

Rhaegar nods, and stands. He is taller than she, but Sansa feels powerful, like her decision has given her something over him. “Let us start now, then,” he says, resigned. “I will guide you beyond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I extend the story. I don't know why I do this to myself. 
> 
> Please comment/review! I love reviews! They motivate me to keep writing!


	4. Lethe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As long as there has been life there has been death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALMOST DONE!! This fic is my nerdy self geeking out about Greek Mythology. There's some Persephone symbolism, some Underworld symbolism. Hope y'all enjoy, and let me know what you think!

In the span of a few footsteps, the Underworld becomes glassy and dream-like. Almost immediately, Sansa stills.

“Where are we now?” Sansa asks, reaching out to touch the wall. Her fingers brush the smooth marble, cold against the heat of her hand. The sensation tingles through her, and Sansa gets the feeling that she is floating above her body. Detatched, Sansa looks to Rhaegar only to find he is gone. _Some guide he is_ , a faraway piece of Sansa’s mind whispers viciously.

“Another test?” she wonders aloud. She feels as though she should be more alarmed, but the numbness in her mind is soothing; plagued as Sansa has been with fear and worry these past weeks, the absence is comforting.

The marble walls around her are dark; she can nearly see her reflection in the glossy surfaces, especially with the frost creeping down the stone. Sansa’s breath comes out in a huff, a white cloud that dissipates almost as soon as she breathes it out.

Around the corner before her, Sansa can see a faint, flickering glow. Fire.

She is so very cold. Perhaps she can warm herself by the fire, if only for a moment before she returns to look for Jon. Perhaps she can rest a while. It has been so very tiring, traveling alone in the Underworld.

The corridor is long, and every step that Sansa takes seems colder than the last. Her sandaled feet are trodding through snow by the time she reaches its end.

It is no fire, Sansa observes when she rounds the corner, but a river. A river that emanates warmth and light.

Before she can stop herself, it seems, Sansa is crouched near the riverbed, fingers stretched out to dip into the water. It would not be so bad, she thinks, to rest here for a bit, in the warmth. She can almost forget…

With strength Sansa did not know she could possess, she rips her hand away. The motion is so sudden and violent that she falls back, away from the river. Gasping, she scrambles away from it.

“What evil is this?” She snarles, staggering to her feet. She pulls her dagger from her satchel and whirls around, searching for an attacker, for an enemy.

There is no one.

Breathing heavily, Sansa faces the river. It is still warm, and pulsing with an inviting light, but now that she looks through the water, she can see what lies on the bottom. An abyss.

“This is the River Lethe,” a voice tells her. When Sansa looks round, she cannot see its source. It goes on, “You can leave your suffering behind should you so choose. You may drink, and find a way to be happy once more.”

“How?” Sansa demands, and drops to her knees. If she reaches out, she can touch the gleaming waters. So warm…

The voice does not speak again, but Sansa knows what it will say. If she drinks from this warm river she will forget.

Against her will, a feeling of peace settles over Sansa. She has not felt this peace in a long while, not since her father had tucked her into his arms and told her and Arya and Bran those silly stories of his about those silly mortals that he’d encounter on his travels. She feels the warmth of those lemon cakes her mother’s worshippers would leave for her. She feels Jon’s arms around her, his chest rumbling with that laugh that gave Sansa shivers. She could have that peace again.

“But will it be happiness?” Sansa mumbles, her lips forming the words slowly. Her face is numb from the cold, from the warmth, from it all. “Will I be happy if I don’t remember my father? Or my mother’s love? My siblings?” Dimly, Sansa can feel her eyes begin to water. “I can’t be happy without Jon,” she decides. “Even if I cannot find him here, I will not be happy without him.”

“Your willfulness will destroy you. Why deny yourself this chance to begin again?”

He is there, when she looks up. The boatman. The faceless man. Sansa clutches the snow beneath her fingers, digging her fingers into the dirt under. Slowly, she rises.

“I have come too far,” she argues. “I cannot begin again, not when I am so close. I can taste him near.”

“You may be needed by your family,” the faceless man tells her. “You would forsake them for a mortal boy? One who is already dead?”

“They have each other,” Sansa points out. “Jon has only me to look out for him now.”

“Are you here for him?” The faceless man questions, tilting his head to the side, looking into Sansa, it seems. “Or are you here for you? Are you being selfless in saving his soul, or selfish in reclaiming it for yourself?”

Sansa clenches her fists, digs her nails into her palms. “Can it not be both?” she demands. “Can I not be selfish and selfless? Can I not want him for him and myself? Must I have only one motivation?”

The faceless man does not answer. Sansa did not expect he would. She shakes her head. “I will pass,” she says.

“You are sure? You can still drink from the river. You will be returned to the mortal realm. It is not too late.”

Sansa looks to the river. It invites her, even now. “No,” she says. “I will return only when I have Jon Snow with me.”

The faceless man seems to sigh, but Sansa cannot be sure. With her next breath, she is no longer next to the river, but in a garden.

  

 

  
There are flowers.

They are pale as moonlight, and glitter in the blue light of the Underworld. Sansa stands among the naked trees and thinks that this garden, although full of plants, looks as dead and skeletal as the rest of the Underworld. There is little color in the landscape before her, and the branches of the white trees reach skyward like claws scratching their way through a coffin.

The garden is not here to invite her in, but Sansa finds she prefers this naked honesty to the treachery that is the River Lethe.

Her mother’s winter roses would bring color to this garden. So would all the other flowers Jon has brought her over the years. It would bring life to the realm of death.

“This is your last test,” a voice says from behind her. Sansa turns. The faceless man sits at a bone-white table, and before him is the first color Sansa has seen since coming here—red. A pomegranate.

Gingerly, Sansa takes a seat at the table, as far from the faceless man as she can.

“No living creature has ever made it to the Underworld before,” the faceless man explains, as he arranges the pomegranate on a plate. It is unbroken, and he places a small knife besides it, but makes no move to cut. “You have refused my offer to forget this place and leave. You have also passed the tests this realm has put before you. You are worthy, it seems. You have made a bargain, given kindness to a wounded creature, and judged an enemy without bias. You have proven your determination.”

“What more is there?” Sansa asks cautiously. She does not like the look of this.

The faceless man looks up, and the boatman’s face has returned. His eyes are sad, almost. “For thousands of years,” he begins, his voice soft, gentler than she has ever heard, “as long as there has been life there has been death. The Underworld is a place of the past, present and future. And I have existed for as long as time, as the ferryman, as the guide. But not as the ruler of this place. We have never had a ruler.” He places his hands flat on the table, on either side of the pomegranate. “We have never needed one. But we do now.”

“Why?” Sansa asks, matching the softness of his tone. This conversation feels forbidden, feels wrong. She has no place in this world’s politics. She is here for one reason only.

The boatman holds his fingers up, and looks through them at the moonless sky. “The world above is about to change,” he confesses. “Humans will, in the next few millennia, become more powerful than the gods themselves. It may be that they will one day topple Olympus itself. They push, even now, past the boundaries of the world they have been given, they push and push and push and go further than the eyes of the gods can see. They are growing, and soon they will be more numerous than the great beasts that roam the worlds above.”

Sansa swallows hard. She cannot imagine her family falling. Arya and Bran and Robb, even little Rickon…

“There will be more dying,” he continues, voice hardening. “And more death. Gods and men.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Sansa asks. “I am only here for one man, and the Underworld will be free of me. Free to deal with this future you predict.”

“You do not understand,” he insists, although Sansa feels she is beginning to. “As long as there is life, there must be death. There must be an Underworld. And with the change ahead, we must have a leader.”

Sansa studies his face. His mask is gone, and she can see the questions, the vulnerabilities, the fear. She can see his determination as well.

“Are you not in charge here?” She asks. “You seem to have controlled my stay here.”

He shakes his head. “I am not. Nor will I be. I am the boatman.”

“You want me to stay. To rule this Underworld.”

“You have proven capable,” the boatman says wryly. “I designed the tests to judge your character. You are a just ruler.”

Sansa’s anger flares, “I am a seventeen year old goddess, one of the youngest gods alive,” she retorts. “I have not ruled anything in my life, not even my own emotions. I have been selfish, as you pointed out. I think of myself.”

He scoffs. “We all think of ourselves,” he tells her. “Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. What matters is that you find it within you to care for others as well.”

Sansa forces herself to release her breath. “You want me to be queen of the dead,” she breathes. Before recently, she thought she’d follow in her mother’s footsteps, perhaps become goddess of flowers or summer or something equally simple, something that would fit the old Sansa. Today, she is being offered the greatest responsibility she can think of.

“Queen. God. Judge.” He pauses, then offers, “Protector.”

Sansa can feel herself shrinking, and she presses her hand to her heart. It beats quickly. “I want Jon Snow. I want to see him.”

“You cannot.” The mask has shuttered over the boatman’s face again.

“Why?” Sansa demands, a hysterical sob clawing its way up her throat.

“You must decide first.”

“Would you have ever let me take him?” She asks savagely, her anger rising. “Was this your plan all along?”

He offers no answer.

Sansa calms herself in three long breaths. Her hands are shaking, so she clenches them on the table. Her mind is racing, but she forces it to slow, to think.

“Fine,” she says. “I will be your queen. What must I do?”

A flicker of a smile crosses the boatman’s face, almost too quick for Sansa to catch. He pushes the plate, and it slides across the table. The pomegranate’s color nearly hurts her eyes after going so long without.

“You must eat,” he says. “The food grown in the Underworld will bind you here. You can never go against your promise.”

Sansa takes the knife carefully. Small, but sharp, it reminds her of the ceremonial gold blades on Olympus, though this one is made from obsidian.

Slowly, so slowly, Sansa cuts the fruit. The juice oozes out when she snags a seed, but in a moment, it is open before her. Sansa takes a small handful of them, and looks at them in her palm.

Six seeds. Six seeds to change everything.

But Sansa is the one who has changed everything, isn’t she? She feels almost powerful, with those six seeds in her hand. Two roads stretch before her, and for the first time, she can choose which way she wants to go.

“All right,” she says, and brings the seeds to her lips. And so two roads become one, and so Sansa becomes a queen.

 

 

  
The first thing Jon does when he is brought before her is kneel.

Her lips are still red with pomegranate, and her skin is still cold, her hands have just stopped shaking.

“Sansa,” Jon murmurs, when she slips onto her knees before him. He whispers it against her lips again. “Sansa.”

There is such anguish in his voice. Sansa wants to cry, to tell him it will all be alright now. But she cannot tell him such a lie, not quite yet.

“Jon,” she sobs instead, clutching at his shoulders, gathering the wool of his shirt beneath her hands. It feels so real, _gods_. He feels so real.

And he is. He is real, and finally in her arms again.

She is crying, and Jon looks like he wants to as well, but he cannot. He is not alive. Sansa buries her head against his chest, inhales the scent of him. He smells like he did when he was alive, like woods and the dust of her mother’s temple.

“You are mine,” Sansa tells him, mumbles it against his chest. “You will always be mine. Now and forever, Jon. I will never leave you again.”

His fingers card through her hair, and to Sansa he almost feels warm. “I know,” he says.

“I will rule the Underworld, and you will be by my side forever. We will never be parted, I swear it,” she tells him, pulling back to drink in his face hungrily. Gods, he is real, he is real, he is before her again.

Sansa can feel the boatman behind her. “My Queen,” he interrupts, and although she is loath to do it, she turns away from Jon to look at him.

The boatman’s eyes are unreadable, but Sansa thinks a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Your throne awaits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think? There's only one chapter left, so I'd love to hear any comments, questions or reviews below! Hope everyone liked this chapter. Personally, it's my favorite. 
> 
> What do you think the next chapter will be about now that our star crossed lovers are reunited?
> 
> Please comment. Because, you know, comments are awesome and motivational and just great.


	5. The Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has to fight for the dead. There is no one else who will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's DONE! This is a bittersweet ending for me, but I'm sure some of you will hate me for it. Whoops.

Sansa feels something almost like warmth when Jon kisses her. He is still cold to her touch, but sometimes… sometimes she can feel it, the pounding of blood under his skin, as if in memory of life. She knows he feels it too, that sometimes he has to catch his breath, though he has no need of air. His fingers against her skin will heat, his chest beneath hers trembles at her touch.

She can grow accustomed to the cold, so long as there is warmth behind it.

And there is. There _is_.

 

The weaver who Sansa has appointed as Fate stills, and pulls out her shears. Calmly, almost, she picks out a strand that has begun to poke out, and cuts it.

“If you keep at it like that,” Sansa says mildly, from atop her throne, “I may have to get you a helper, to weave that web of yours.”

Myranda tilts her head, regards Sansa with that eerie sense of calm. “Aye,” she agrees, “that is an idea. Perhaps two helpers. Fate has many strings, and is oft tangled. Two more shall be a great help.”

As she speaks, she picks out another string. With what looks like a great deal of deliberation, she slices the string. Sansa can feel the souls, now. Two new ones, at the bank of the river that is the edge of her realm, with their coins weighing their pockets down. The boatman... the faceless man will liberate them of that weight.

“Those two should do,” Myranda tells Sansa, picking up the loom and beginning to weave.

Sansa watches in amusement, for a moment, at her solemn Fate. She hopes the others will be more cheery. The Underworld was, slowly, becoming a true court under Sansa’s careful construction. Still, it is far too quiet for Sansa’s tastes.

“My queen,” a voice calls, just as Sansa has lifted herself off the throne. She turns, just in time to see Rhaegar Targaryen’s troubled face. He approaches, and Sansa shakes her head at her Hound, who moves forward to stop him.

“What is it?”

His face twists, into an expression she has never before seen on him. “There is news,” he begins.

 

  
Sansa finds Jon overseeing the newly arrived souls. He has a kind touch with them, the confused, the angry, the sad ones, just as Arya once treated a lonely mortal boy with kindness. He asked to be put with them, and Sansa does not know if he relishes the chance to spend time with his father, or if he truly wishes to help. But today, Sansa pulls him away. They are in her chambers in moments, the Underworld warping and reforming to her command.

Sansa does not let him speak. Instead, she kisses him.

It is a rough, desperate noise that comes from Jon’s chest, and when Sansa pushes him onto the bed, though he reaches for her immediately.

“Sansa,” he groans, when she pulls too tightly at the laces of his breeches. “Sansa, let me…”

With a strangled noise, Sansa gasps at his hands, one steadying at her thigh and the other joining hers at his laces.

His breaches are shoved down in moments, and Sansa merely has to lift the hem of her chiton before she is taking Jon inside her. Her sigh of relief and his low moan tangle in the air, and Sansa begins to move.

They have been gentle before. This is not gentle. This is desperate and wild and possessive, and amidst it all, Sansa can only feel Jon. Something in her chest threatens to overwhelm her, but she needn’t have worried—Jon’s fingers are adept at making her forget, if only for a moment, and it is not long before she has come to a stuttering peak above him.

When she has steadied herself and been tucked into his side, Jon ventures to speak.

“What is it?” He whispers, still panting. It is one of those times, then, that he forgets he is dead, and his body is warm. She burrows into it, knowing that she will miss it too much when he has regained himself long enough to remember.

“Someone came into the Underworld,” Sansa tells him, tracing a finger along his throat. He swallows, and she follows the movement. “Someone alive.”

“Who could do that?” he asks.

“I did,” Sansa says, and she has to blink to hide her tears. “I did it.”

She can feel Jon watching her. “Gods,” he says. “Is it Arya?”

She loves that he knows it immediately. She hates that he knows it immediately.

“I opened a crack when I came here,” Sansa whispers. “She must have…” Sansa’s voice trails off, and she cannot continue.

“What will you do?” Jon asks. Sansa feels his fingers against her spine. They have already started to cool. “Is she here to take you back?”

Sansa sits up, and forces her back to straighten. “She cannot take me back,” she says, and tries to make her voice firm. She has missed the mark, if she can judge Jon’s face truly. Even to her own ears, she sounds sad and resigned.

Jon sits as well, and his shoulder aligns with hers. Softly, he brushes a kiss against her temple. He repeats his question. “What will you do?”

 

  
Sansa knows that Arya will not pass the three headed wolves and the hall of souls with the same patience she had. Knowing her sister’s propensity for violence, Sansa does not hesitate in sending the boatman to collect her and her companion without taking their coins. She tells Rhaegar to take them straight through, to bring them before her without any trouble. And then she allows Jon to place her dark crown atop her brow, to dress her in her black cloak and her ice-blue gown. He kisses her before they arrive at the throne room, and takes his place standing on her right. At Sansa’s left, Myranda continues to weave silently, untroubled.

For a long moment after she has arranged her skirts and composed her face into an icy mask, there is silence. A stillness hangs in the air, something so still that would have never been possible above the ground. No one, save Sansa, breathes. No one, save Sansa has to struggle to maintain their indifferent expressions.

Her hand clenches and unclenches by her sides, and she lays them in her lap. At her side, Myranda pulls out the shears again. She cuts a string.

The doors open, and Sansa’s sister steps into the room.

It has been nearly a year since Sansa saw Arya. Had it been so long? Sansa cannot remember for sure. She has not changed much, here in the Underworld. The same cannot be said for Arya.

Her sister’s hair is long. Long enough for a braid that hangs down her back like a thick rope. She has a bow slung about her shoulders, though Rhaegar has taken her arrows, and a fur cloak. A silver circlet lies across her forehead.

Sansa cannot breathe, but she stays still. She cannot break.

Arya stops short when she sees her. Her grey eyes study the room, slowly, before they return to Sansa. Sansa gets the idea that her sister had not expected to see her here, atop a throne, dressed finely, with a crown on her head. And then, faster than lightning, Arya’s eyes have flicked besides Sansa—to Jon—and back.

The faceless man makes his way to the foot of the throne, and kneels. “My Queen,” he intones, with something like a smile twisting at his face. “The goddess Arya, lady of the hunt, has come to call on you.”

“Has she?” Sansa says, almost distantly. “Well met, Lady Arya. I trust your journey was not too unpleasant.”

Arya’s face—guarded before—cracks, and her mouth opens in disbelief. “I—my journey? Sansa, what are you…I cannot believe you—” her sister steps forward, as if to make her way to Sansa.

The Hound blocks her way. “You may not approach,” he rumbles. “You have not been invited.”

Sansa’s throat nearly closes with the words she cannot say. “You do not belong here, Lady Arya.”

Behind Arya, Gendry places a hand on her shoulder. Sansa is pleased that he is here. At least Arya is not alone. At least Sansa has not left her alone.

Confusion on her sisters face wars with anger, and anger wins out. “Where have you been?” Arya demands, her voice cold and hard. Sansa does not flinch back. “What have you done?”

Sansa does not answer, but rather lets her eyes roam meaningfully about the throne room.

“She is the queen of the dead,” Rhaegar Targaryen answers instead. “She has been here, where she belongs.”

Arya snarles at him, and Gendry’s arm on her shoulder becomes a restraint. “You let our father’s murderer live?” Arya flings in her sister’s direction.

Sansa gives a soft sigh, and her sister’s eyes refocus on her. “You’ll find,” Sansa says, “that Rhaegar Targaryen is dead. Everyone in my realm is dead. You do not belong here, among us.”

“ _You do not belong here_!” Arya shouts, her voice hitching at the end. “Sansa, I have come for you.”

Sansa does not move.

“Queen Sansa cannot leave,” the faceless man says. “She belongs here. You do not. You must go.”

“ _Sansa_ , my _sister_ , belongs with me,” Arya says, her eyes burning on Sansa’s. “She belongs above, with our family.”

“I do not,” Sansa tells her. “I am the goddess of death.”

Arya laughs, a hurt, angry noise. “There is no such thing,” she hisses.

“There is now,” Sansa replies, hardening herself. “I have taken the Underworld. It is mine. I cannot leave my people because you want me to go with you.”

Besides Sansa, Myranda cuts another string. Arya’s eyes dart to her, to the shears in her hands. Sansa’s fingers tighten in her lap, and before she realizes, she has stood up. Her sister’s eyes come back to her.

“Jon,” Sansa calls, and he is by her side in an instant. She loves him for that, and places her hand on his elbow to steady herself. “Rhaegar will take my sister and Lord Gendry to their rooms. Perhaps once they have rested we can try for a more civil conversation. Though you shall not eat anything grown in the Underworld lest you wish to stay here forever.”

Arya looks angry; Sansa cannot blame her. But Gendry whispers something and her sister’s shoulder slack and the fight leaves her body like a rush of water.

“Sansa,” she begs, but by then Rhaegar has reached them and Arya is no longer there.

Sansa can feel everyone’s eyes on her. “Get out,” she whispers roughly. “Get _OUT_!”

Only her hand on Jon’s stops him from leaving as well. Once Myranda has gathered her loom, Sansa allows herself to collapse onto her throne. She is shaking.

Jon kneels at her feet, rests his forehead on her knee. There is only the sound of her jagged breathing and her hands clenching and unclenching around his curls.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he whispers. “We need you here. You cannot leave.”

“I know,” Sansa breathes. “I know. I know.”

Is it worth it? She wonders, some days.

She has missed her sister with a ferocity that Sansa had not expected. Her cold façade has hurt her, and she wants to run to Arya, to beg forgiveness. But she cannot. She cannot.

 

  
Arya finds her later in the gardens.

Sansa, in truth, allows herself to be found. She is kneeling in the dirt, a sapling in her hands, when her sister’s footfalls sound behind her. She does not turn, does not stand. She will allow Arya to speak first.

“Was it worth it?” Arya asks, in a hurt voice. Sansa can hear the knot in her sister’s throat. “Saving Jon, leaving us all? For this barren wasteland that has turned you to ice?”

“It is worth it,” Sansa says, and straightens. “It has to be.”

“You gave up your life,” Arya says, hurt. “You left us alone.”

Sansa raises her eyes. They catch on a blue flower, hanging on the end of a naked white branch. She touches it with a fingertip, feels Arya’s unwavering gaze. “You have each other,” Sansa says, soft. 

Slowly, Arya comes forward. She reaches for Sansa’s hand, and hisses when their fingers touch. “You’re cold,” Arya says. “Gods, this whole place is freezing.” She rubs Sansa’s hand beneath her own, as if it will warm her up.

Sansa closes her eyes briefly. She nearly misses it when Arya says, “The gods are at war.”

Her eyes snap open. Her sister is studying her face. Arya continues. “Littlefinger killed Joffrey. He says he is the god of war now. And you let him free.”

Sansa’s mind races, “I—”

“Our mother refuses to bring spring. She has been refusing since she realized you were gone. She will not feed the mortals until you return. They have begun to riot.”

Sansa remembers the faceless man’s words. Olympus will be toppled by man.

“Robb was killed as well,” Arya says, dropping Sansa’s hand and looking away. Sansa's heart squeezes. “By Roose Bolton, who has aligned with Littlefinger. Lord Arryn, god of the moon, King Robert’s biggest ally, was killed as well.” Arya steps back, and Sansa misses her warmth already. “Your actions have caused nothing but strife,” Arya spits, her anger returning in force. “I have come to return you above, so at least the mortals do not have to suffer any longer. But you refuse?”

Sansa swallows. “I refuse. I cannot return.”

Arya’s face twists into a mocking smile. “Of course. You always wanted to be a queen.”

Sansa reels back, as though her sister has slapped her. “You—” she hisses, “You cannot understand why I have done what I did.”

“For love,” Arya scoffs. “Not love of your family, that’s for sure.”

“They need me here,” she says. “It was a mess before I set it right. No souls were being judged. No one was taken care of. There were people who have been dead for hundreds of years in limbo, just stuck here. I took care of them all.”

“We needed you too!” Arya shouts, her brows pulling together. “Little Bran and Rickon, they were alone too! Mother disappeared to Olympus, Father was dead, Robb was dead! And you! You left!”

“You had each other,” Sansa insists, tears springing into her eyes, her chest knotting and unknotting. “I need to be here. The future—”

“Bugger the future!” Arya hisses, and turns to face her. “You stupid girl, there won’t be a future unless Littlefinger dies.”

“I am not a stupid girl,” Sansa says, cold and deadly. Arya freezes at her tone. “I am a queen. You will treat me with respect, Arya.”

Sansa thinks Arya will be mad. Instead, Arya’s face crumbles. “Gods,” her sister swears, before she pulls Sansa into a hug so tight she can barely breathe. “I missed you so much,” Arya mumbles into Sansa’s shoulder.

Sansa is crying as well. She had meant to be cold with Arya, to push her away, to make it easier to force her out. Instead, she clutches at Arya’s back. “You have to go above,” Sansa says, her voice rough. “You have to fight for the living. I have to fight for the dead. There is no one else who will.”

Arya shakes her head into Sansa’s shoulder. “I can’t,” she insists. “You were the strong one, Sansa—”

Unexpectedly, Sansa laughs, and strokes Arya’s braid, “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one.” She pushes at Arya’s shoulders. “Arya. I did not think I was strong enough to make it this far. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned…” she hesitates before touching her sister’s cheek. “We are stronger than we think.”

Arya’s face is wet with tears, but Sansa has never seen a sight so lovely. “I miss you,” she says. “I miss you all the time.”

Sansa’s throat is clogged with tears. “I miss you too,” she says. “But I cannot come home. I belong here now.”

 

  
Jon comes to see Arya off. Arya hugs him fiercely, and makes him promise to protect her sister. Sansa looks on in amusement, though something threatens to make her tear up. She turns to Gendry. “You will take care of her?” She asks softly.

“Yes,” he says, his face solemn.

“When my wars are done,” Arya is telling Jon, “I’ll come back.”

Sansa hopes she will.

“I love you,” she tells her sister. She cannot remember the last time she said it.

Arya grins at her. _The age of the gods will not last forever,_ Sansa aches to tell her. _Stay with me, stay here in safety_. But she cannot say these things. The faceless man catches Sansa’s eyes and she swallows her words.

“I love you too.”

Sansa stays at the riverbank long after Arya is gone, long after she can feel her sister leave the Underworld. After a time, though, she allows Jon to lift her up from the dirt and dry her eyes.

His kisses are sweet, and warm—though Sansa wonders if he has gotten warmer or it is she who has gotten colder. When Sansa pulls away, she does not have to fight for breath. She kisses his cheeks, she kisses his eyelids and then she holds her head high.

She has work to do.

 

 

They whisper about her.

They are afraid of her.

Shrouded in ice, buried under rubble and dirt and bones, bringer of death, a cold visage the like of which no one has seen.

Sansa watches, and hears what they say. It feeds her, their fear.

But still. _Still._

It was not always this way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my answer to the awful Sansa/Arya relationship that D&D gave us on the show. They are different, and they do disagree and fight...but they are family above all, and that holds them together. So...enjoy and let me know what you guys think in the comments. I'm going on an update binge, so let me know which of my stories you guys want updated first!
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr, and please review!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! This is the first of two chapters I have planned, and I wrote this instead of studying (so thank me in the comments).
> 
> Please review!


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